


The Ghost in the Machine

by thegenuineimitation



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pitch Black (2000), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Alien Planet, Angst, Betrayed by the Ministry, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cryo-Sickness, Cryo-Sleep, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Monsters, Near Death Experiences, Serious Injuries, Sexual Tension, Spaceships, Supernatural Illnesses, Survival Horror, Tear the Hero Down, coarse language, tagging as we go...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3109346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegenuineimitation/pseuds/thegenuineimitation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing caged, be it man or beast, stays that way forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Long Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the Chronicles of Riddick Series.

Harry Potter.

Boy-Who-Lived.

Savior of the Wizarding World.

He was sitting in a five by five holding cell warded to the nines and guarded by an insane number of trained Aurors. He was still wearing what they'd caught him in, loose pants and nothing else. While the outfit was perfect for a lazy day in an Arizona heat wave he was friggin' cold locked up in some dank corner of the Ministry back in jolly old England.

He hadn't been given a blanket but temperature control kept him from actually freezing. He was just uncomfortable.

He'd been here for, he guessed, a month. He still had friends in high places who were bearing down on the new Minister for Magic and his bureaucracy trying to get the order for his execution rescinded. At least, he was fairly sure that's why he was still waiting for either death or daylight.

Harry reflected that this was really all his own fault. If he'd stayed in England during the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat instead of immediately disappearing to wander the globe he could have used his influence on the Wizarding World to prevent this. He could have stopped the new government, which was comprised of all the former government's faults with none of its malleable bribability, from ever coming into power.

After Ron's death though he had needed time to grieve and after that he'd become used to the freedom of flitting from place to place, exploring the world learning about other cultures and places. He'd corresponded with Hermione, Luna, the Weasleys and Neville. They'd all done much the same thing he had, thrown themselves into actually living life without worrying about politics or war.

Hermione had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy of all people and though they never married together they had three kids and were running a chain of private luxurious hotels in both the Wizarding and muggle worlds. Busying themselves with their work and family they hadn't noticed the signs.

Luna had done much what Harry himself had done only she had done it for the specific purpose of discovering heretofore undiscovered magical creatures. She'd met Rolf Scamander a fellow mythozoologist along the way and though they hadn't as of yet found any Crumpled-Horned Snorkaks they were both deliriously happy with each other. In remote wildernesses completely cut off, by their own disinterest, from news of the Ministry.

Neville had hooked up with Tonks in the early days of the aftermath. He'd been her partner when they'd both still been Aurors and he'd helped her raise Teddy and work through her grief over Remus' death. Then slowly they'd become more. Lovers and parents to Teddy. They poured all their time and energy into their family and then into their students when McGonagall had hired them on as Defense and Herbology professors respectively.

Molly and Arthur had rebuilt the Burrow a process taking months and comprising fits and starts that eventually collected into a hodge-podge whole. It would go to Ginny when the elder Weasleys passed on.

Arthur had retired from his position at the Ministry his pension and Molly's new bakery in the village of Ottery St. Catchpole kept them living comfortably and peacefully.

Ginny had joined the Hollyhead Harpies and was anything but peaceful. Harry's revelation about his sexuality had caused Ginny no amount of self-esteem issues and she apparently found it necessary to work through them by sleeping her way through the International Quidditch League. Needless to say she didn't read the papers much.

George, Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson kept WWW afloat in the aftermath of Fred's death and eventually the Joke shop began expanding revitalized by new ideas as they took on apprentices and finally were able to move forward. But wallowing in grief and fighting to save a business left little time for keeping track of political curves.

Bill and Fleur had moved to Cairo and spent the majority of their days plundering forgotten ruins for treasure. English politics were as far from their minds as it was possible to be.

Harry had heard about the trial and the verdict only after it had happened. He had been staying with his sometime lover Julien Delacour, Fleur's cousin, when Gabrielle, still a rather big fan of his despite the fact that it had been years since he'd pulled her out of the Black Lake, had burst in and informed him the Ministry of Magic had petitioned the International Confederation of Wizards and had revoked his diplomatic immunity in order to hunt him down and have him executed for being a former Horcrux and posessee of Voldemort's.

Apparently too much time with the Dark Lord in your head could turn you into one yourself. Who knew?

He'd left Julien immediately and gone on the run. It had taken the bounty hunters two years to catch up with him and even then they'd barely prevented his escaping three times before they actually made it to this miserable cell.

They'd locked him into Binding Chains cutting him off from his magic. His magic thought he was dead and was slowly draining away back into the Earth from whence it came and all he could do was sit here and hope to be rescued before the last of it ran dry.

The cell was small, bare and depressing but there was an old deaf house elf who kept it clean and him as well with her magic so at least it didn't smell too badly. There were three meals a day, the same crap they served in the cafeteria above, and he had no cellmates and none of the guards seemed inclined to try and hurt him. He'd had worse at the Dursleys.

It was waiting in the dark that got to him.

There was nothing here to do except ward off the feeling of the silence and blackness pressing all around him, for hours, days weeks...

If he let it the feeling would press tight against his senses sending the primal parts of his brain that still remembered he wasn't at the top of the food chain into screaming fits until he was sweating and shaking with near panic. He'd done it on purpose a couple of times just to shake things up, worked himself into such a dither that he'd ripped his nails off trying to claw through the walls and floor.

The house elf had tattled on him after that and judging by the horrified expressions on the Aurors' faces when they came to inspect the damage it hadn't helped his case.

The trap door to his little cell swung open and Harry tried not to shrink away from the light that hurt his eyes after so long underground.

"Potter!" called a familiar clipped voice.

"Secretary Blinthe, how nice of you to visit," said Harry clearing his throat to try and erase some of the disuse from his voice.

Blinthe, as usual, ignored Harry's jibes. The picture of bureaucratic efficiency, that was him. He was a bland sort of man, a half-blood who'd worked as a memory modifier before the Ministry's fall to Voldemort. A steady looking sort of man people thought they could depend on if not be particular friends with. He was, Harry reflected, a man with no soul; obedient to a fault, loyal, practical, a little ruthless and not particularly squeamish.

"Mr. Potter, as the Secretary for Internal Defense it is my duty to inform you that you have been charged as unstable and dark and thus a threat to this government. As such, the Ministry of Magic in conjunction with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has sentenced you to eternal imprisonment. The Aurors will escort you to Azkaban Island Prison where you will be entombed in enchanted stone. If you have any final words you may speak them now,"

Harry laughed a bit. A bitter humorless sound.

"You're all fucking idiots," he said.

Dutifully Blinthe noted the words down on his clipboard. He then turned to the burly Auror standing beside and slightly behind him.

"Bring him," Blinthe ordered before turning away his boot heels clacking smartly on the polished floor.

The Auror gave him a pitying glance.

"They tried y'know. Yer friends," he said.

"I know,"

Harry saw a flash of red light and then everything was dark.

And it stayed dark.

He couldn't move in the dark. It pressed close against his skin keeping him still. It pressed close against his mind keeping him silent, his thoughts down to mere whispers. He still perceived the shadowy echo of murmured voices and the occasional brush of a flower against his feet or rain and wind across his body jolted him into greater awareness for awhile.

Mostly though he felt nothing.

Mostly Harry dreamed and remembered and waited.

For what he didn't know.


	2. Crash Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the ship crashes.

Carolyn Fry woke as if from a nightmare gasping for breath her hands curled into claws. All around her alarms were screaming and lights were flashing. Fumbling she pulled the emergency release handle to her left. The thick door of her cryo-pod swung open and Fry hit the metal deck of the main cabin with a grunt.

The world felt like it was tilting crazily and the bright lights flashing and alarms blaring didn't help matters. She staggered to her feet, still wobbling and weak from cryo trying to wrap her head around the situation.

She turned to the pod beside her, the one that held the ship's med-tech. There were half-a-dozen holes punched through his plexi-glass and inside the pod he was bloody and clearly dead. She quickly looked away supressing the urge to vomit. Fry staggered towards the next pod. Her face lit up when she saw the captain struggling awake.

"Cap'n-"

Before she could say much more than that there was a hissing, popping sound and another ten or so small chunks of space debris whizzed through the captain causing near-instant death. With a horrified expression on her face Fry stumbled back from the cryo-pod and landed on her ass.

Another pod burst open and the ship's mechanic, Owens, tumbled out on top of Fry.

"Why did I fall on you?" he asked almost calmly, blinking at her and still clearly disoriented from cryo-sleep.

He rolled off passively when Fry shoved at him, lying back against the metal grating of the floor and frowning up at the hull.

"He's dead," Fry babbled, panicking, "Cap'n's dead. Christ! I was looking right at him when—"

"Why did I fall on you?" he repeated, turning his head to look at her, "Chrono says we're 22 weeks out, gravity isn't supposed to kick in for another 19. I mean, why did I fall at all?"

"Didn't you hear me?" shrieked Fry, "Cap'n's dead! Doc too."

"Oh no, you mean…dead? Like dead, dead?"

"Dead!"

"Fucking cryo," Owens muttered shaking his head as if to jolt it back into some kind of functionality.

Owens and Fry got a hold of themselves well enough that they were able to stumble into the nav bay and pull on their warm-up suits. Fry dropped into the pilot's seat and checked her screens.

"1550 millibars, dropping 20 MB per minute. Shit! We're hemorrhaging air! Something took a swipe at us," Fry said, more focused at the controls.

Owens fiddled with a few of the switches for the Nav computer.

"Just tell me we're still in the shipping lane. Just show me all those stars. Those bright, beautiful, deep-space…"

Impatiently Fry slammed the button and brought up the exterior view. A planet rushed toward them with frightening speed.

"Jesus god…" she croaked.

"Well, that explains why we have gravity," Owens said detachedly.

Fry scrambled up from her chair in the nav bay onto the flight deck throwing herself down in front of the main controls there and pulling on a headset haphazardly.

Over the coms she could hear Owens calling after her.

"They trained you for this, right? Fry? FRY!"

Fry didn't bother answering him. Yes, they'd trained her for this during flight school, in simulators, where there had been no danger to anyone or anything if she failed much less her own ass on the line. She was a rookie, had been on maybe twenty runs before shipping out with the _Hunter-Gratzner_ and all of them had been smooth. Still, she moved with the surety of having repeated a motion over and over again and that had to count for something.

They'd entered the atmosphere now for sure, Fry could feel it in the way the ship shuddered and groaned, breaking atmo stripping it of its sensory antennas and other delicate pieces. After a few false starts she managed to get the crash shutters to open giving her a good view as they punched through the upper layers of cloud, going way too fast.

"We're dropping serious altitude!" she shouted at Owens even though he could hear her perfectly fine through the com.

"…the crisis program picked planet number two of this system. It's reading with at least some oxygen and 1, 500 – would you SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

There was a crash on the other side of the com and the alarms stopped blaring even as Fry realized, in a panic, that the rough entry had jammed her lower flaps. She heaved a few times on the lever, straining, before turning back to the controls grimly flipping switches as she tried to think of something else to slow them down.

"1,500 millibars of pressure at surface level. God damned computer did something right for a change," Owens continued more calmly, "This is an emergency transmission from merchant vessel _Hunter-Gratzner_ en route to the Tangiers system with 40 commercial passengers on board. We've been knocked out of our shipping lane and entering a planetary body in the following position: X – Fry, where the hell're our coms?"

"Gone," she said shortly.

Fry flipped more switches, dumping non-essential parts that hindered aerodynamics. Too fast. The ship was thrown into a roll and Fry could hear Owens cursing violently as he was tossed about. It took a minute but Fry managed to level them out.

The upper air-brakes finally deployed manually but they were still coming in nose up.

_Rate of descent beyond known limits._  The ship's computer told them in a pleasant female voice.

_Deploy lower air-brakes now._

_Deploy lower air-brakes now._

"Alright, we're showing no major water bodies, maximum terrain 220 meters over mean surface, largely cinder and gypsum with some evaporate deposits…"

_Centre of Gravity too far aft. Recommending purge ballast now._

Fry reached for the last lever, punching the switch for the airlock doors, and trying not to think too carefully about what she was going to have to do. 

"Fry what are you doing?"

There was a new tremor of fear in Owens' voice as the jettison doors hissed shut behind him cutting him off from the passenger compartment.

"Can't get my nose down, we're too heavy in the ass!" Fry replied teeth grit as she, dropped her arm for a second and wrestled with the controls.

* * *

 

In the main cabin the jolting of the ship finally roused one of the passengers from their cryo-sleep within the pod.

The man was tall, blond and obviously strong. He wiped urgently at his fogged plexi screen. His pod had been programmed to wake him if the one across from him was compromised in any way, and he breathed a relieved sigh when he saw that the pod across from him was still functional.

The words -  _Lockout Protocol. No Early Release -_  flashed, flickering as bits and pieces were torn off the ship and power constantly re-routed itself. The man inside the opposite pod was illuminated briefly by the blue light.

Objectively he was handsome, Tall, muscular, with his head shaved to stubble and small black goggles covering his eyes. Practically speaking he was dangerous.

The blond man categorized the restraints making sure they all held.

* * *

 

In the cockpit Fry raised her arms again and jerked on one of the emergency jettison handles. The ship shook violently.

* * *

 

In the main cabin the blond man tumbled out of his cryo-pod.

* * *

 

"What the - was that a purge, Fry?" Owens demanded.

"I can't get my fucking nose down!" she screamed back at him as she jerked on the handle that sent the climate controlled cargo-bay tumbling.

* * *

 

In this cargo bay something woke at the sudden jolt and resulting tumble. It came fully awake all at once.

_DangerDangerDanger_

Those were the only thoughts in its mind as its guts twisted and it felt itself falling. Fear skittered along the black pushing prodding for weaknesses. Trying to run and failing. Trying to scream and having no sound form.

_DangerDangerDanger_

It couldn't see the danger but it could hear sirens blaring and the low groan and screech of tearing metal.

Then came the great crash, it felt the impact shudder through it snapping invisible locks. It was like coming in from and icy winter's day and jumping into a steaming hot shower. Painful pins and needles as its deadened nerves came awake and a slight burning sensation. It just got hotter and hotter until it felt it.

A droplet of liquid like a bead of sweat rolling off the end of its –  _his_ fingers.

* * *

 

Owens crouched down in the narrow passage between the flight deck and the nav bay watching as Fry reached for the third and final emergency jettison handle.

"Fry, what the hell are you doing?"

She jerked her hand away guiltily.

"I've gotta drop more load. I've tried everything else, I still got no horizon!"

"You try everything twice! We don't just flush out—"

"If you know something I don't, get up here and take the chair!" she snapped.

"Company says we're responsible for every single one of those people!"

"What, so we both die out of sheer fucking nobility?"

"Don't touch that handle!" roared Owens backing back into the nav bay.

Fry watched the ground come closer and closer, her hand twitching. The ship jolted violently and Fry barely managed to keep them from going into another spin.

"I'm not going to die for them," she muttered, jerking on the final handle.

Nothing happened so she pulled again, harder.

_Air-lock doors not secure._ The computer informed her patiently.

"Owens!" Fry screamed.

She whirled in her seat peering back down the tunnel between the flight deck and the nav bay to see that the mechanic had opened the jettison doors manually, and was keeping them propped open with one of the long clamps.

"70 seconds, you still have 70 seconds to level this beast out," Owens informed her over the headset.

Actively sobbing now Fry swore and kicked at the jammed lever for the lower air brakes again, and again. It gave with a crunch under her boot, now useless, but the air brakes deployed and the ship leveled out, skimming out of the clouds towards the sand below.

Fry watched in horror as one of the primary buffer panels pulled loose from the main body of the ship and shattered the windscreen. Air and dust whirled into the cockpit.

"What the hell was that?" Owens demanded.

A distant voice to Fry. The collision alarms started to blare and the pilot shoved her headset off, spun her chair around, tucked her head between her knees and braced herself.

* * *

 

The ship hit the earth like a skipped stone over a smooth pond. One shuddering crash followed by another, and yet another before the ship started to skid. As the bulk of the ship crunched and skittered the hull breached and in the passenger cabin cryo pods spilled out into the sand, trailing the ship like breadcrumbs, most of the poor souls within dead without even knowing it.

The one passenger who'd been popped out of his pod before impact clung to the empty cargo netting closing his cold blue eyes and hoped to god that the hull under his feet would actually stay there.

* * *

 

In the nav bay Owens was slammed against the ceiling.

* * *

 

The ship groaned to a halt finally and for a long minute all was silent. Dust and sand swirled, not quite settled from the crash, glinting in the partial sunlight streaming through the wrecked ends of the ship, creating a yellowish haze.

The blond man came too first. His ears ringing and bleeding freely from a gash on his head. He staggered over to the prisoner's pod. The plexi screen had been shattered and the prisoner was nowhere to be found. The man looked for his shotgun but was unsurprised to see it wasn't in the locker beside his pod with the rest of his stuff.

Behind him another few pods hissed open and people began calling for loved ones in English and Arabic.

"Zeke?"

"Imam!"

"Here, Shazza!"

A welding torch - and who the hell stowed a welding torch in the personal effects lockers anyway? - lit up as one of the survivors went to work on a mangled pod. After a few seconds the crushed door gave way and a sheepish looking youth in baggy clothes tumbled out.

"Something went wrong, didn't it?" he asked rhetorically.

The blond man ignored them all. He still had his cuffs and the baton attached to his belt and he needed to recapture the prisoner before he managed to get too far ahead.

He moved out of the main cabin into the small maintenance corridor.

Gripping on to the pipe above him tightly the dark skinned prisoner, still in body chains and wearing a harsh metal bit, swung down and wrapped his legs around the blond man's neck. The man struggled furiously against the prisoner's greater strength, one good wrench and his neck would snap leaving him dead or paralyzed and the prisoner free to escape. The blond man grabbed his baton, fumbling it off his belt as he fought to draw in breath, and began beating at the prisoner's legs.

Fortunately for the blond man just as the prisoner found the leverage to deliver that final jerk the pipe he was clinging to gave and sent him and the blond man tumbling. The prisoner hit the deck head first, dazing him, and the blond man scrambled upright, panting. With a jerky motion he jabbed his baton flush against the prisoner's neck.

"Someone's gonna get hurt one of these days," he said, as if he hadn't just been struggling for his life, "And it ain't gonna be me."

The blond man cracked the prisoner across the temple knocking him out. There was no chance he was going to be able to drag the other man's bulk back onto the passenger deck, not without help and not before his prisioner regained consciousness. Thinking quickly, he removed the body chains so that he could cuff the other man to the bulkhead and tossed them aside.

That done he brought out his small flashlight and shone it down the maintenance corridor into the cockpit. Looking for signs of life.

"Hey,"

"Hey, where?"

"Over here,"

The blond man shone his light and saw the petite blonde pilot, pinned by her chair and a good load of sand.

"Got lucky there."

"Yeah, lucky, could use a little help though," she grunted.

He set his flashlight aside and began digging her out.

"I'm Johns, by the way."

"Carolyn Fry," she answered as she hit the flight deck and coughed on a bit of sand.

She crawled a bit away from her chair before letting Johns help her to her feet.

"Are there any others, Johns?" she asked hesitantly, not really wanting to know.

"A few that I saw," Johns answered leading her through the small tunnel and into the nav bay where they could see the silhouettes of the people moving around just beyond.

Fry started digging through the wreckage to the right of the main navigation console and uncovered Owens, lying still with a metal rod sticking out of his chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispered biting down on her lower lip and fighting tears.

She reached out to touch him, she wasn't sure what for but she just felt like it was the thing to do.

"Out, out, out! Get it out of me!" he screamed, before she could even make contact, his eyes popping open.

There was the tromp of boots on metal as the other survivors came running. They crowded around in the darkness of the nav bay and all clamored to be heard.

"Pull it out of him!"

"No, it's too close to his heart."

"You've gotta do it, just do it fast."

Spurred on by the voices behind her Fry reached for the protruding rod.

"Don't you touch it! Don't you touch that handle, Fry!" Owens screamed.

Fry flinched away from him again.

"You'll kill him I'm telling you, shit, just leave it alone."

"Delirious it looks like…"

"Dontcha got some drugs for this poor man?"

"Don't you touch that handle!" Owens screamed again.

"Alright, alright. Someone, there's some anestaphine in the med-kit back there," Fry said gesturing to the back of the passenger cabin.

"Not any more there isn't."

Fry turned to snap at the asshole who thought he was such a smartass and choked on her own voice - gaping at the sheer destruction of the back part of the hull and the sunlight streaming in for a long moment.

Owens continued to scream in exquisite pain, too far gone now for words.

"Get out. Everybody, just get out!" Fry ordered cradling Owens' head in her lap.

The survivors filed out, all except the boy who watched with a morbid sort of fascination until Johns doubled back and dragged him out by the scruff of his neck.

The survivors staggered out into the sunlight shielding their eyes against the light. It was like walking into a furnace. The only thing to see for miles in front of them was sand and rock. There were a few protruding spires not far in the distance and above all of it were two suns one red and one yellow beating down on the wasteland below.

"Our own little slice of heaven," said a short white man irreverently.

He was about forty, with receding brown hair wire rimmed spectacles and an air of lazy self-indulgence.

"Paris P. Ogilvie by the way, pleasure to meet you all, damnable circumstances of course,"

The two rough looking prospectors a man and a woman, early thirties, with dark skin and work roughened hands nodded politely around the circle.

"I'm Shazza, this is my man, Zeke," she said.

Zeke gave another perfunctory nod.

"I'm Jack!" piped up the boy with an easy grin straightening his hat over his short, sandy brown hair.

"Johns," said the blond man shortly. 

"I am called Imam, these are my boys Suleiman, Hassan, and Ali. Please, which way is it to New Mecca? We need to know the direction in order to pray," said the tall sturdy dark-skinned Chrislam.

Johns pulled a compass out of his belt, more for his own sense of direction than to help the Chrislam, but it just spun around wildly.

"Damn," he said snapping it shut.

The Chrislams - seeing as how no one knew which direction New Mecca actually was - prayed back to back, each of them facing a different compass point.

The screaming finally stopped.

"We should set up a search party, look for more survivors," Zeke said into the silence.

"Jack, you shouldn't climb up there!" Shazza said scaling the wreckage after the boy.

"Whoa," breathed Jack looking out behind the ship.

"Jesus…Zeke, Johns, you better come see this!" Shazza called.

The two men scrambled up the side of the ship joining the gaping duo up top, and their breaths caught at the scene of destruction laid before them and the long scar of damage caused by the crash.

"Guess we won't be needing that search party, you'd have to be damn indestructible to survive that," said Johns.

"What's all the fuss?" asked Paris with a breathy wheeze as he hoisted himself up to join the group on the top of the ship.

He let out a low whistle when he saw the scar.

Moments later Fry joined them. Johns leant her a hand up.

"There was some talk about a scouting party…" Shazza started to say.

Fry's eyes widened as she turned and caught sight of the long smoldering gash their landing had made in the earth. At a glance anyone could see there would be no more survivors.

"…then we saw this," Johns finished.

There was a long silence where they just stared at the wreckage before Paris interrupted.

"Anyone having breathing problems? Aside from me?"

"Feels like I just ran," said Jack.

"Feels like we're one lung short, is it all of us?" Shazza commented.

"Well I tend towards the asthmatic and with all this dust…" Paris trailed off pointedly.

They all turned to Fry looking for an explanation and Johns noticed the reluctant way Fry stepped up to the plate. Like she didn't want to be the one in charge at all.

"It's the atmosphere of this planet, too much pressure not enough oxygen, it might take a few days to –"

"What the bloody hell happened, anyways?" Zeke interrupted.

"Something knocked us out of our lane, maybe a rogue comet. We might not ever know," Fry shrugged.

"Well I for one am thoroughly fucking grateful. This beast wasn't made to land like this but cripes, you rode her down," Shazza said with naked admiration, "C'mon you lousy ingrates, the only reason we're alive is a'cuzza her," she admonished the others.

All at once there was the low buzz of grateful murmurs that made Fry want to shut her eyes and squirm away.

"Suppose you're right. Thanks very much,"

"Yeah, thanks for saving our dicks,"

"No really, thanks awfully,"

"Well done,"

Fry shook her head unsmiling.

"Let's see what we can do about air, there are some pressure suits in the crew cabin," she suggested.

Fry, Zeke and Johns made their way back into the main cabin and dug around in the rubble until they found the locker with the pressure suits.

"Here we go. There are liquid oxygen canisters inside, start tearing them out. Quick hits only, we wanna try and make 'em last," Fry said handing the suits to Zeke who passed them off to Shazza and Jack.

"I'll see 'bout makin' this air go a bit further, cap'n. With your permission a'course," Zeke offered.

Fry started slightly at being called the captain and though shadows filled her eyes she didn't bother correcting Zeke.

"Do it," she said with a nod.

"So is someone coming for us? Or will we die of dehydration, or exposure, or maybe something even worse?" asked Jack, pulling at the fabric of his assigned pressure suit and looking almost excited by the prospect. 

The assembled gave the boy odd looks.

"You don't have to worry about scaring me," he assured them.

"Maybe, we're more worried 'bout you scarin' us, luv," said Shazza towing Jack along with her to the overhang created by the cracked hull of the ship and starting to rip the canisters out of the suits.

Zeke gave a faint grin and grabbing his tool belt started scrounging around in the maintenance area for supplies. Which left Fry facing another problem.

"Who's he?" she asked gesturing at the prisoner still strapped to the bulkhead, "I was told there was a maximum security prisoner among the passengers, but that was all."

"Big Evil. Name of Riddick," Johns answered.

"And we just, what, keep him locked up forever?"

"That'd be my choice. Already escaped once from a triple max slam on –"

"I don't need his life's story. Just tell me, is he really that dangerous?"

"Only around humans," answered Johns with a lazy grin.

Fry stared at Riddick for a long moment then her eyes focused on the spot behind and to the left of his head.

"Oh, shit!" she swore as she watched water run down the side of the hull in a steady meandering trickle.

She dashed past Riddick and into the maintenance corridor, grabbing up a flashlight on her way.

"What is it?" asked Zeke, poking his head inside the ship.

"The cistern is leaking," she snapped sticking the light through her belt loop and scrambling up the wall rungs into the crawlspace above.

"It might just be the pump, easy fix," Zeke assured her.

Fry flicked on the flashlight and fumbled one handed with the trap door to the cistern. Her heart sunk when she saw the daylight flooding through the breach in the hull into the mostly dry tank.

"Well, is it the pump?" asked Zeke.

"Ask if anyone has anything in cargo. Anything to drink!" Fry called back.

Zeke cursed and Fry heard the tromp of his boots as she shinnied out of the crawlspace and back into the maintenance corridor.

"Well, this just keeps on getting better and better," said Johns sarcastically.

"We've lost the water tank, anyone got anythin' to drink in their cargo?" asked Zeke.

"Plenty, if the packing survived," answered Paris.

"Let's go take a look," said Fry appearing into the daylight with Johns, "You guys stay here and try and get the oxygen working, 'kay?"

"Aye, cap'n," Shazza nodded not looking up from her fiddling.

"Anyone who needs anything from the cargo-bay we're headed that way now," Fry called to the Chrislams.

They began packing up their prayer mat but Paris, Fry and Johns saw no particular reason to wait for them and started across the desert towards the hulk of the climate controlled cargo-bay. It was only about a fifteen minute walk across the sand to the second compartment and together Fry and Johns had no trouble opening the jettison doors.

Johns swayed a bit on his feet.

"S'matter?" asked Fry urgently.

"Nothing, had a bit of the flu, before. With the cryo-sleep never really got over it," he told her with a small one-sided shrug.

Fry let it go, they had bigger things to worry about than a case of the sniffles. 

The cargo-bay wasn't anything exciting. A big room that had struck the earth at an odd angle and stuck in the sand on a bit of a slant. There were forty or so smaller shipping containers with locks on the doors. Some of them had overturned and crashed into each other but most of them had remained secured to the floor.

"Ah, here's mine," Paris said with a pleased air, pulling the key out of his pants pocket and opening the container's doors.

The door swung open to reveal a stack of tiffany chairs, and various ancient looking statues and smaller wooden crates. The whole thing smelt of dust and aged pine.

"King Tut's tomb..." Johns muttered.

"What in the blazes!" exclaimed Paris.

Johns reached for his weapon and Fry knelt down next to Paris to get a better look.

There, leaning against the side of a crate, was a pale young man with shaggy looking black hair dressed in a pair of loose pants and a set of chains.

"Jesus! A stowaway?" asked Fry.

"Get back, both of you!"

"He hardly looks dangerous," said Paris gesturing to the young man's glazed eyes and lolling head.

"He's in chains," Johns said firmly, "If he's in chains he's in them for a reason and I'm not about to take my chances with him."

"Is anyone else wondering how the hell he even got here?" Fry asked.

There was no way the docking crew could have missed him during the pre-flight checks. It just wasn't possible.

"I had…but it's not…" Paris stammered running and hand through his thinning hair.

"Spit it out," Johns snapped.

"Well, I had a Terran statue, 21st century AD, white-marble, neo-roman, a young man, looking rather a lot like this one, in chains. There were only 20 found intact and they were considered so valuable because of their exquisite detail. They are...well, they're incredibly lifelike."

Johns snorted, catching Paris' implication.

"No shit."

"It looks like he's got cryo-sickness, or something like it," Fry said, still watching the young man.

Paris wrinkled his nose.

"In either case, best get him out of there before he damages something irreplaceable."

Fry shot Paris a look that he pointedly ignored.

"Hey man, we're going to drag you out of there. Can you tell us your name?"

"M'nme," murmured the young man.

"Just stay back here," sighed Johns as he moved forward towards the slumped figure.

"M'nme…M'nme…m'name…" he muttered, not resisting as Johns grabbed him by his chains and literally dragged him out of the storage container.

Fry shined her flashlight into his eyes experimentally and the young man winced away from the light but his pupils contracted and dilated properly from what she could tell.

Then he rolled over and threw up.

"Yeah, he's real dangerous," Paris deadpanned moving into his little treasure trove.

"Well, he's definitely got some kind of cryo-sickness," Fry said turning him on his side, "You alright?" she asked.

"M'name's Harry," he told her before his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know this chapter has a lot of stuff directly from the movie and I promise you'll get greater deviation from the original as we go along.
> 
> Also people have expressed concerns about Harry being OOC or the eventuality of mpreg in this story. Just letting you all know there will be no mpreg in this fic. For those of you who were hoping, sorry guys not really my shtick.


	3. Responsibility and Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Riddick escapes and Harry wakes up.

Imam and his boys walked into the cargo bay to find Fry and Johns still standing over the young man.

"Who is this? A survivor?" he asked crouching down to examine his unconscious form more closely.

"Either he's a stowaway or a priceless bit of sculpture," Johns said annoyed.

"Sculpture?"

"Apparently, Paris had a sculpture that looked just like him," Fry said with a healthy dose of skepticism.

"In case any of you were wondering it isn't in here anymore, that statue, not even in pieces," Paris called from his position rummaging through his antique junk.

"How unusual."

Imam made as if to touch the man.

"Don't," Johns warned, "This guy is chained up for a reason. I don't want anyone going near him 'til we find out what that reason is."

"With all due respect, the man is clearly unconscious and not in any state to harm anyone, if indeed he ever intended to. I will choose to believe he is innocent until it is proven that he is guilty," said Imam reaching down to put his wrist against Harry's forehead.

Johns tensed, his hand twitching to the pistol at his belt as if he expected Harry to leap up and spring a surprise attack on Imam. But Harry remained unconscious and Imam only said "Hmm."

"What is it?" asked Fry.

"He has no fever, in fact I would say he is colder than expected."

"That won't last long in this bloody toaster oven," Paris commented.

"I think he has some sort of cryo-sickness, prolonged exposure maybe. I'm not a medic," Fry shrugged running a hand through her short blond hair.

"Here's the one!" Paris announced.

The assembled turned to watch as he opened up a painted sarcophagus to reveal that it was stuffed with unmarked bottles.

"Well, at least it's not a total loss."

"Booze. That's what you have to drink?" Fry said, unimpressed.

"A two hundred year old single-malt scotch is to booze as foie gras is to duck guts."

Johns picked up a bottle and unscrewed the cap eagerly.

"A toast to whatever the hell he just said," he said, taking a swig.

"Ah, I'll need a receipt for that. For all this! This is my personal stuff!" Paris said, looking rather like he'd've liked to snatch the bottle from Johns before he remembered the man was bigger, stronger, better trained and better armed than him.

"Top of my list," Fry said, taking a gulp when Johns offered her a bit from his bottle, "I don't suppose it'll help you much," she added gesturing to Imam and his boys.

"Unfortunately it is not permitted, especially not while on Hajj,"

"You do realize there's no water," Johns pointed out taking another swallow.

"In a desert there is always water, it only waits to be found. I will however take this," he said picking up the sarcophagus lid and examining it critically, "The boys and I will take our friend here back to the crash site."

"He's not our friend, I'll take him, chain him up with Riddick," Johns said standing.

Imam raised his eyebrows at Johns and pointedly looked around him down at Fry.

"With your permission captain, I will take responsibility for this young man."

Fry chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully.

"Leave the chains on 'im otherwise, he's yours," Fry said with a nod.

"Thank you."

"Don't turn your back on him," Johns advised a bit sourly.

"My friend, you have spent too much time searching out the evil in people, but there is good as well to be found in our race if we are only given the opportunity to show it," Imam told the blond man.

Johns snorted and took another swig from his bottle.

Unperturbed, Imam gave a few orders to his boys in Arabic and together they made a makeshift sled out of the lid of Paris' faux sarcophagus and rolled the unconscious Harry onto it. They then proceeded to drag him back to the main crash site. Paris following with an armload of luxury items, puffing and wheezing as he went, his glasses sliding down his nose and dangling off the end precariously.

Fry and Johns stayed behind to break open a few of the other storage lockers, hoping to find something more useful than Paris' contributions.

* * *

 

Jack was, predictably, the first one out of his seat when Imam and the boys appeared over the last sand dune, Harry trailing behind them on his makeshift stretcher.

"Who's he? Is he a survivor? Is he hurt? He doesn't look hurt. Did you guys find anything to drink?" he asked in quick succession.

"You may want to conserve your breath for breathing, young Jack," laughed Imam, mussing the boy's short hair.

Jack ducked out from underneath the preacher's arm and glared at him before turning his attention back to the man in the sled.

"He's in chains, like Riddick. Is he like Riddick?"

"We do not know," Imam answered pulling the sled into the shady overhang of the jagged hull, "This young man was found amongst Mr. Ogilvie's things, perhaps he can tell you more."

"Crikey, in the storage locker you found 'im?" Zeke asked.

"The Captain, Mr. Ogleby, and Mr. Johns found him, yes. It is not clear where he came from."

"Bloody hell," said Shazza, "Looks to be in rough shape."

"Yes, he fell unconscious shortly after they discovered him," Imam agreed.

"I'll see what I can do 'bout a cot and some more clothes for 'im," Shazza said disappearing into the wreckage.

Imam dragged Harry on his sarcophagus lid back into what remained of the main cabin so that his pale skin would be sheltered from the sun.

* * *

 

Riddick watched through the small tear in his blindfold as the holy man knelt next to the new survivor on the floor. The survivor wasn't in his line of sight, but Riddick wasn't one to rely on sight anyway.

Closing his eyes he inhaled, slow and deep.

He sifted through the familiar smells of the main cabin, nothing new there, metal and smoke. The holy man and the female prospector were excluded next as they puttered around the cabin setting up a makeshift bunk and talking in low voices. Cheap pine and sawdust, that didn't seem right, so probably whatever they'd been using to drag him around.

Sweat, vomit, stone, and static electricity and underneath all that…something spicy. Herbs. A kind of tea, maybe.

The preacher and the prospector grunted a bit as they lifted him, but it was a brief noise, he was light then. A teenager? Didn't smell old certainly.

The prospector came into Riddick's line of sight and he tilted his head, just enough to get a good look at the new blood.

Riddick couldn't make out any colors through his eye-shine but he didn't need to. He could tell the man was young, not twenty-five yet at a guess. Tallish maybe 5'11. Slender and lean but every spare bit of flesh over his bones was muscle. A body well-honed. His loose pants hung provocatively low on the juts of his hip-bones and rode up to reveal long-boned feet and well-turned ankles. His shaggy dark hair covered his face but Riddick was almost positive he was handsome.

Also wrapped around that slender waist was an even more interesting sight. Chains that looped twice around him loosely, like some sort of bizarre belt, connected by another vertical hanging chain to a metal circle, something they could secure easy to the wall or floor. Then the chain forked leaving maybe a foot and a half of slack before finishing in an old-fashioned pair of manacles.

The sun glinted off the cuffs, momentarily blinding him as the preacher tried to arrange him more comfortably. If he could have spoken he might have told the man it was no use. It's impossible to sleep easy in chains.

Riddick closed his eye against the slight burn of the light. He'd seen all he needed to see.

The new blood was a puzzle, one he might solve for the fun of it, if he had time.

He waited until the preacher and the prospector went back outside, then, taking care to be quiet, he stood up pressing his spine against the beam behind him. Glad, for once, of the stupid metal bit in his mouth, Riddick raised himself up on his tiptoes and slowly began to lift his arms. With a grunt of pain and a sickening double pop he dislocated his shoulders then slowly raised them above his head, dragging the cuffs through the small gap in the beam Johns had thought he couldn't reach. With a shrug his shoulders popped back into place and he shuddered in relief even as he pitched himself forward, grabbing the prospector's abandoned cutting torch on his way down.

In minutes the only evidence he was ever chained up were the heavy metal rings still locked around his wrists, the soreness in his shoulders and the bit he held in his hand. He stole the black welding goggles from the prospector's locker and quickly fitted them over his sensitive eyes.

He considered the still form of the new blood. Still out. No sense wasting time on getting him loose. He left the cutting torch in easy reach though, in case he got a lucky shot at his own freedom.

Then he slipped out through the broken windscreen in the cockpit and left the bit in the sand for Johns to find before doubling back around and heading in the opposite direction.

The whole thing practically screamed chase me, but the merc would take the bait because he wouldn't be thinking clearly, wouldn't want to lose his big payday.

Riddick had to smile at that. 

Easy pickings. 

* * *

 

Jack, bored of watching Zeke and Shazza fiddling with their bits of pipe, grinned when he noticed the smallish figure struggling up over that last dune. He jumped up and ran over to where Paris was struggling with a folding chair complete with umbrella, a folding side table and pockets full of expensive booze and cigars.

"Hey, I'll carry that if you tell me about the new guy," he bargained.

"You carry this, I'll tell you anything you want to know about anything," puffed Paris sweating profusely.

"Why'd you bring all this junk anyway?" asked Jack taking the folding table.

"If I'm going to be stranded on some godforsaken desert planet for lord only knows how long I am at least going to have my creature comforts."

"Whatever, so tell me about the new guy!"

"Well, you've seen him already."

"Yeah."

"Well, it seems that I unknowingly purchased him whilst he was in some primitive form of cryo-sleep."

"And in English that means what exactly?"

"I thought he was an ancient stature when I bought him, but he was just in cryo, better?"

"Sure," shrugged Jack.

"Good, now put that there," Paris instructed, "Climb to the top and I'm going to hand things up to you."

"So if he was in cryo, how long has he been like that?"

"Oh, a few thousand years I should think. Keep a good grip on that, it's a very expensive, very rare type of whiskey,"

Jack rolled his eyes.

"So what's wrong with him? Why is he wearing chains?"

"Well, what's wrong with him, I certainly don't know. Our esteemed captain has diagnosed cryo-sickness. As too the chains, well, our resident lawman has diagnosed that he's a bad, bad man," Paris said clambering up the side of the ship and popping open his umbrella, "Yes, that should do nicely."

"Jack?" called Shazza.

"Up here!"

The pretty woman came into view and squinted up at Paris' little haven. She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

"Come down here a minute, Zeke and I think we've rigged something for the O2," she said jerking her head.

"Awesome," Jack said as he scrambled down the ladder.

Shazza man-handled him into place, fiddling with her armful of apparatus.

"So this clips onto your belt there, then you loop that bit over your shoulder."

"Like this?"

"Yep, good, now to take a hit, bite down and take a deep breath," Shazza instructed.

Jack fiddled with the nozzle a bit to get it just right and then took the hit. He grinned when he felt the small puff of metallic tasting air and all of a sudden he could breathe more easily.

"It works, this is great!"

"Don't use it all in one go, don't know when we're getting off this rock so we have to try and make things last."

"No worries," he waved when he saw Fry and Johns cresting the dune, "Hey Fry, check it out!"

For the first time since the crash a ghost of a smile lit Fry's face.

"There you go, cap'n," Zeke said handing her an O2 rig of her own.

"This is great," said Fry, taking a hit, "You guys did an amazing job."

"This 'un's the brains of the operation, couldn't've of done it without 'er," said Zeke coming up behind his partner and wrapping an arm around her waist.

Shazza gave him a pleased grin and tilted her head up for a kiss that Zeke obligingly gave.

"Uh huh, great work," said Johns, scowling and impatient, "Where's Imam?"

"Over—"

Johns didn't bother waiting for her answer but shoved past Zeke into the wreckage of the ship.

"Rude much," Shazza grumbled.

"Shit!" came Johns' enraged yell.

There was a crash and seconds later the blue-eyed man went sprinting out of the ship towards the empty desert and the setting suns.

Fry had a good idea of what had set Johns off and she swore violently when a glance confirmed it.

"What's all the ruckus?" asked Paris, descending from his little perch.

"Riddick's escaped," Fry answered.

Jack gave a low, impressed whistle.

"How? We've been right here this whole time, someone would have seen him, or heard something," Shazza said.

"Not a chance, Riddick is way too good," crowed Jack.

"You do realize you're rooting for the man who would kill you without blinking?" said Paris.

"I know, he's awesome!"

"The other one's still out, that's something at least," sighed Fry.

Imam and the boys came jogging up.

"What has happened?" asked Imam, "We heard shouting,"

"Riddick's escaped," Paris told him.

Imam's face grew grave. Johns came striding back over the sand, Riddick's discarded bit clenched in his fist. He didn't come right out and blame Imam for Riddick's escape but it was clear from the dark look he shot the holy man that he thought he was responsible.

"Well?" demanded Fry.

"Found this, back that way, towards sunset. We need to gather up all the weapons we've got in this heap, arm up," Johns said urgently.

Spurred into action by Johns words the crash ship and surrounding area became a beehive of activity as the survivors gathered up anything that could even remotely count as a weapon and brought them all back to the main cabin.

"I don't got any weapons, so I'll watch the statue-guy, make sure he doesn't escape," Jack piped up.

Fry and Johns exchanged a wry look.

Imam glanced at Harry's still limp and unconscious form.

"That would be very helpful, young Jack," he said with all due gravity.

Jack grinned and plunked himself down next to Harry studying him intently. Glad to have Jack occupied and out from underfoot the adults trekked back to the cargo bay to gather up what weapons they could.

* * *

 

Once they were gone Jack scrambled to his feet revealing the discarded cutting torch and his grin took on a mischievous tilt.

He pulled the damaged welding goggles he'd fixed up with the torn edge of his shirt out of his pocket and slid them over his eyes. After a few false starts he managed to get the cutting torch going the way he'd seen Zeke and Shazza using it.

A bit hesitantly he picked up the slack length of chain that connected the manacles to the loops around Harry's waist. It only took a second and the old style chain split like butter underneath the torch. Jack tugged on the loose end and the chain, which was heavier than he'd expected, pulled free of Harry's body slowly. Jack winced as the chain dragged along the metal floor with a harsh scrape.

Harry's eyes blinked open slowly.

"What the fuck?" he slurred.

Jack jerked away from him like a skittish cat.

"Ah—" Harry put the heel of his hand up against his forehead, his head pounded and throbbed and his stomach churned threatening, "Bloody hell!"

"Hey," Jack piped up, "You gonna be sick or something?"

"Nothin' left to come up," he answered clearing his throat, "Any chance at some water?"

"Nope, we ain't got none," Jack shrugged.

"Bloody brilliant. Where in Merlin's name am I?" Harry asked looking around, taking in the extreme heat, and the ruined looking room before him.

"Well you were on the _Hunter-Gratzner_ , on your way to the Tangiers system, Paris bought you cause he thought you were a statue, but we crashed so now you're stranded on some desert planet somewhere."

Harry blinked a bit shocked.

"Huh," was all he could think to say, "I see. What's your name then, mate?"

"I'm Jack,"

"Harry, nice to meet you."

"C'mon we've gotta get you out of these restraints before the others get back so you can escape," Jack said remembering abruptly that he only had a certain amount of time before that happened.

He lit up the cutting torch.

"Whoa!" cried Harry jerking away, "Easy there, before you damage me beyond fixing. These cuffs come off easy when you've got outside help, all you need is a knife or a thin bit of metal."

"Oh," said Jack, looking a bit disappointed as he turned off the cutting torch.

He rummaged around the heaps of debris littered around the main cabin until he found a small bit of metal that seemed sharp enough.

"Like this?"

"It'll do," Harry said, sitting up with a wince.

He held out his wrists.

"Now, see this little crack here?"

"Yeah."

"All you have to do is press the bit of metal straight down and wiggle it until you feel it click open, gently mind, you poke me with that thing I'll poke back."

"Sounds easy, why haven't you escaped before this?" Jack asked as he deftly inserted the bit of metal into the first cuff fiddling a bit until he heard the click.

He winced in sympathy as the skin, rubbed raw and blistered in many places, was revealed.

"Cause before this I was locked down in a bare underground cell, then I was entombed in stone," Harry answered matter-of-factly.

"What did you do?" asked Jack as the other cuff fell off.

Harry took a deep breath in and sighed in pure pleasure as he felt it, the last little bit of his magic flooding through his body as best as it could. The nausea, headache and pervading cold practically disappeared. Then Harry got a good sense of just how close he'd come to losing it all. His magic was almost gone, there was just barely enough in his inner well to keep him alive not even enough for a simple light spell but after a month of being cut off and able only to watch as it trickled away the sensation was heavenly. Better even than a cool glass of water in this furnace of a desert.

"What?" Harry asked, shaking his head to clear it as he realized Jack had asked him a question.

"What did you do?" said Jack more slowly, "To get all chained up I mean, did you kill somebody?"

"Oh, uh, it wasn't so much what I did as what people thought I would do if they left me alone," Harry said vaguely not wanting to get into the particulars of horcruces, possession, and black magics with a muggle boy.

"So you're like a terrorist?"

"Not exactly. It's complicated."

"So make it simple."

Harry sighed prodding at his wrists to see how much damage was done, buying some time to think of a good answer.

"There was this civil war and while I fought on one side, I knew lots of things about the leader of the other side. How he got his power, his following, why he thought what he thought. It was part of my job. After it was all over though the new government got scared that I would use what I knew against them and they would have another war on their hands. So they locked me up forever, I guess I should be grateful they didn't just kill me outright. It certainly would have been simpler for them."

"Oh," said Jack.

Harry chuckled a bit as he stood and stretched.

"Preemptive imprisonment not bad enough for you? What, you were hoping I'd slaughtered a bunch of people?"

His shoulder and spine popped gratifyingly and he cracked his neck before tucking his hair behind his ears and flicking his fringe out of his eyes. Gods he needed a haircut that was going to get annoying very fast.

"What'd you get so many for?" asked Jack side-stepping Harry's question.

"These?" said Harry running a finger down the shell of his ear and the eight simple silver balls that dotted it.

"Yeah," said Jack.

"It's a memorial for the good people I knew, my friends and family, who died in the wars, one for each, sixteen all told,"

"Did it hurt?"

Not so much as the loss had.

"A bit," he answered neutrally, "Any chance of getting some clothes?"

"Sure," Jack said handing him the white button down, socks and boots they'd scrounged from the crew cabin, "Shazza and Imam found these, they think they might fit."

"Who do I have to thank for them?"

"The medic, dunno his name, but he's dead so it's not like he needs 'em," Jack said with a shrug.

Harry raised an eyebrow but slipped into the shirt and shoes without further comment. The shirt was a bit big and Harry had to roll up the sleeves but with the thick socks the boots were a near perfect fit.

"How do I look?" he asked twirling slightly for Jack.

"Like you're dressing up in your dad's clothes," he said.

"Par for the course," shrugged Harry.

"You talk so weird, like I understand the words but sometimes you make no sense."

"Sorry," offered Harry, his lips quirking up a bit in amusement at the kid's boldness.

He tore off the hanging tail of the shirt and tucked the ragged edge into the back of his pants. He then tore the excess fabric into two strips and wrapped them carefully around each of his damaged wrists.

"You really should escape now," Jack told him, "The others are going to be back soon with the weapons."

"Er, just why are you so keen that I escape?"

"Well the other guy we had chained up, Riddick, he escaped earlier while no one was paying attention so if you stay they'll probably attack you or try to chain you up again. Johns doesn't like you," Jack explained.

"Er…right then, brilliant, better hide these then," Harry muttered throwing the Binding Chains into a pile of debris rather more forcefully than was probably necessary, "What was this Riddick chained up for?"

"He killed a bunch of people and when they finally caught him, he escaped from Butcher's Bay, that's a triple max slam!" Jack exclaimed the admiration clear in his voice.

"Slam is like, a prison?" Harry frowned.

"Yep!"

"Wonderful."

"So what are you going to do?" Jack demanded.

"Wait for your friends to get back and tell them I come in peace," Harry answered, "By the way what year is it? I forgot to ask earlier."

"1865 AE."

"AE?"

"After Earth, it started off being ADE for after departing Earth but that was too confusing in the beginning, so they changed it."

"Merlin's beard," Harry whistled, shocked.

"When're you from?"

"2003 AD," Harry answered.

"Cool!" Jack exclaimed, "You're like, actually ancient."

"Thanks," said Harry dryly.

"What the fuck is he doing unchained?" came the sudden angry interruption.

Moving without thinking Harry put himself between Jack and the angry blond man that stormed into the main cabin.

"Johns!" someone called out in protest.

It was a woman with long dark hair and a sort of fierce beauty, Harry noted her in his peripheral as a potential ally before turning his attention back to Johns.

In the time it took Johns to stalk over Harry had already decided on how he was going to disarm the man and had thought of three ways to kill him if that didn't work out.

"Calm down, I'm not here to hurt anybody," he snapped back putting his hands above his head and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to move in an instant if Johns went for the weapon at his belt.

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been posted on my ffn.net account for ages (since 2011) and since I was doing some TLC and thinking about actually sitting down and writing the explicit scenes I promised my loyal readers [we'll get there eventually guys!! ;p] I figured it was high time I started cross-posting. 
> 
> I may pause to do some editing as I go along, but everything I have currently written should be posted withing the week :)
> 
> Please take the time to comment and let me know what you guys thought!! I love hearing from all of you!!
> 
> *For those people who want to read this in Russian please contact the lovely Jyalika on ffn.net*


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